


In Love

by Winterstar



Series: The Depths [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sexual Situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:25:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter has confessed his feeling about Neal to Elizabeth. Now they all must deal with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Love

  
Clocks tick in loud and vacuous places leaving just time like drift wood behind it with its currents. She sits and stares up at the round face of the clock. It is a solid, plain clock, much better than the one with butterflies on it and birds. With that one every time it hit the hour, a different bird chirped and sang. She wanted to throw a shoe at it the first night they were here. She could hear it all the way up in the guest bedroom. Cheeping and twittering its way through the night. By the third night, she stole its batteries but she was found out too easily. When a week went by and she couldn’t find sleep because she waited for the next bird in line to tell her that her life was being counted away by the minute, Elizabeth finally climbed up on a chair and pulled the clock down. She snuck over to the sink and submerged the clock in a tub of water. In just a few minutes, she knew because the clock ticked them away, it died. She dried it off, and hung it back on the wall. Pleased, she crept back upstairs to join Peter in their bed in his parents’ house.

Now a discount clock from the nearest department store replaces it. It possesses no special tunes or songs or delightful charms. It just ticks. She sits in the kitchen, in the dark, and plays with her teabag, watching the clock. She doesn’t understand why she can’t sleep, why she’s sitting in the middle of her in-laws kitchen. She tries to justify it with the unbalanced state of her marriage. She knows deep in her heart that she’s lost, she’s missing pieces of herself and she cannot figure out what or where or when she misplaced them.

A soft shuffle of feet alerts her that she is not alone in the whispers of the night. Her mother in law walks into the kitchen. She stands to the side of the small kitchen, there is something comforting and welcoming about the kitchen. It is a room in desperate need of updates and renovations but somehow Elizabeth wishes it will never be updated, because it harkens back to simpler days without dishwashers and without microwaves. She smiles a little to herself; well maybe a microwave would be nice.

“Difficulty sleeping, my dear?” her mother in law asks.

Elizabeth nods and starts to stand to offer her some tea. She waves Elizabeth off and walks to the stove to turn on the kettle. It whistles quickly since the water is already hot. She brews her tea and then takes a seat next to Elizabeth.

“Tell me, Elizabeth, why are you and Peter here?”

Elizabeth bows her head and knows she’s been made. She isn’t surprised, Peter had to inherit his uncanny detective ability from someone. She shrugs. “Peter needed to be reminded a little about who he is.”

“Tough times at work, he told me that much.”

Elizabeth confirms this fact. It is true after all. “Yes, he’s put in for a transfer from the unit. Maybe something in the analyst department or maybe in financial. Not sure.”

The older woman nods, and picks up her cup. She blows on the tea and sips. “So, why is it he’s fast asleep and you’re down here every night sabotaging my clock and drinking all my Bengal Spice tea?”

She colors and feels like a two year old. Her mother in law has a special talent of squashing Elizabeth’s self-image with a simple sentence. “Sorry about the clock.”

“Forget it; I’m happy the damned thing is dead. It always drove me nuts.” She chuckles a bit and asks Elizabeth if she would like some cookies. She doesn’t wait for an answer but retrieves them from the cupboard and opens the plastic ware. Homemade and oatmeal raisin.

Elizabeth takes one and tastes it. It feels like home, it tastes like yesterday, but it is so far from New York City she aches. She bites back a sob before it breaks free but she cannot stop the tiny sound of it from pitching into the dark night.

Her mother in law reaches over the table and lays a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “Tell me, what is it?”

She thinks of the last weeks as she watched the unraveling of her marriage as if a tapestry of love and time and loyalty fell apart in front of her. It had been Peter who wove it back together. His strong arms had been there when she cried; his words of soothing support had bolstered her fears. He never wavered, he never looked back. He made a decision and stuck to it. She should be grateful, she should be happy. She had triumphed over the worst attack on her marriage. She feels desolate, lost, and defeated. She feels like there’s a hole in her chest and no one can fill it up.

She has no words to explain to her mother in law.

The hand on her arm tightens and holds her to Earth as if she’s a wayward kite and suddenly has been anchored to the world below her. “I can tell you this, when marriage threw me a curve ball I batted it the hell out of the park. I learned how to hit it. Sometimes you have to figure out a different way, Elizabeth. Sometimes it isn’t what you expect, sometimes in order to be happy you have to think a bit outside the rules of the game.”

She tilts her head before she stands up and leans over to kiss the crown of Elizabeth’s head. “Go to sleep, sweetie. You’ll figure it out. My son loves you with everything he has in him. You love him the same. Figure it out to make it work.”

Elizabeth turns in time to see the flicker of her robe as she disappears down the hallway to the stairs. Placing the cookie on the table she gazes at it like it is a foreign object she cannot identify. Her life isn’t here, neither is Peter’s. She thought bringing Peter here would remind him of his roots, would define them as history and life and tradition expected. She doesn’t live here, in this town, away from the city. She lives with Peter in the greatest city in the world with traffic, and noise, and art, and beauty, and pollution, and subways, and life. She doesn’t want to miss who she is again. She doesn’t want to cut parts of herself out of her life. She wants truth, and she needs to be truthful. There are things in her life in the City, she will never have here. There are ways to rectify that, there are ways to redefine their marriage to make it work. Her people, her life, and everything Peter and Elizabeth are exist not here, but in the city, in New York City.

She stands, determined and re-invigorated. She takes one more look up at the clock glaring down at her. Time ticks on, progresses and moves. She doesn’t have it to waste anymore. She knows what she has to do. She needs to stop hiding, to bring her life back in line. She’s ready and leaves clock and time behind.

*oOo*  
He realizes he’s been staring at the tiny green light on his anklet for the last half hour when the sound of rain starts to patter on the skylight and he looks at the clock. He shifts and thinks about it, the weight of it on his leg. He frowns as he thinks that in so many ways it is his own albatross, his own ring. He bends his leg so that he can touch it as he lies in bed. He glides his finger over the edge of it and thinks about its feel, how he missed it at times when he was walking along the shores of the Atlantic, free of it on the beaches of Cape Verde. He is so much like Gollum or Frodo, he hopes he doesn’t start whispering precious to the damned thing.

He should have left well enough alone. He should have run the night Peter called him. He should have told Peter no, the deal would never work out again, because the moment Neal saw Peter again, the moment his arms enveloped him, Neal fell and he longed for the anklet.

He looks up and follows the pattern of rain on the window as he thinks about what Diana told him today. She hadn’t been happy as she pulled him from his desk at lunch time. They went to the elevator and she gave him a scowl when he tried to smile at her. They ended up in a small park near the FBI building with lunch purchased from a cart – something Neal avoided at all costs, but his protests were quickly quashed when she glared at him.

Sitting on a bench, she said, “Peter and I come here, sometimes to talk, to work things out.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Peter had taken leave and he assumed had gone on vacation after the disastrous dinner. He still refuses to think about it, the pain shivers sorrow through him when he thinks of Elizabeth’s expression. He never wanted to betray her; he never wanted to hurt her. He swallowed as Diana talked of Peter.

“You know Peter took extended leave?”

Neal had nodded, Hughes had told him so much when he was informed he would report to Diana.

“Do you also know that Peter has put in for a transfer?” Diana set her sandwich aside and took a drink of her iced tea.

“What?” Neal replied. He thought he’d heard wrong, even though they were in the park and the shelter of the trees and bushes drowned out the sounds of traffic, the background noises still played with his hearing.

“Peter asked to be transferred. Hughes wouldn’t go into it,” Diana said and had studied his face as if to watch for anything he might give away. He kept his expression appalled, and exactly as expected at the news. “It could be the higher ups, the big brass are still pissed off at Peter and are pressing him to move to a non-field job, or it could be something else. I suspect it has to be something else.”

Neal gave a small smile and furrowed his brows. “What? Do you know?”

“Hughes also said that he recommended me to be your new handler.”

“Oh,” Neal said and stared at his hands. He wasn’t sure at that moment he could fold the truth inside of himself.

“He made it perfectly clear that his transfer should not lead to your deal being revoked.” Diana bent her arm over the bench between them. Her expression was hard, but still softened as she looked at him. “I need to know what’s going on Neal. Peter worked damned hard to get back to the White Collar unit and no sooner is he back from the Cave, but he’s requesting to be re-assigned and taking leave.”

Neal glanced away and watched the visitors in the park. Several were in suits and sat at various benches eating lunch, a few were children with mothers, and others were just roaming about the small flowered pathways. He zeroed in on a homeless man and wondered if the man had any family at all, had anyone who cared what happened to him.

“I didn’t know,” Neal had stated

“But you know why?” He thought it was a question, but she hadn’t really voiced it that way.

“No, why would you think that?”

“Neal, don’t play me. I know something is up. This whole thing, Peter risking his job chasing after you, bringing you back not as an escaped felon but as a hero, it doesn’t sit right. I know Peter is hiding something and you – you’re at the core of it.”

Neal looked her in the eye, steady and bright and denied everything. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Crap, Caffrey, you’re good, but not that good. I know something is up with you two. I have eyes you know, I can see it.” Diana bagged her sandwich. “I want honesty. If I can’t trust you in this, how can I trust you to be my CI?”

“You can trust me, I’ll work as hard for you as I did for Peter,” Neal said and he wasn’t lying.

“But when it comes to the little scams, the little schemes on the side, I’m not Peter. I can’t get you out of hot water, I don’t have those connections, that kind of reputation yet,” Diana said. “Being my CI is going to be different. I need honesty, and the way you can prove to me that you’re going to work honestly with me, is to tell me what the hell is going on with my boss, my friend?”

Neal gulped down a breath and knew in that instant, he would never be able to work with her the way he did with Peter. He liked Diana, loved her no nonsense attitude, but it was just that attitude that made them like oil and water. They could use each other’s differences, in fact they had in the past, to work successfully, but she needed him to prove trust. He had already promised that trust to someone else.

“I don’t know what is going on with Peter,” he lied.

She searched his face and nodded, then added, “ I have until Monday to give Hughes my answer. Think about it over the weekend. You might not like someone else they could pick to be your handler. At least you know me, Caffrey.” She stood and grabbed her bag and drink. Before she walked away, she said, “Remember, I stopped for you, I drove you to Sterling Bosch.”

He nodded but stayed silent. When it was apparent to her that he wasn’t going to confess anything, she inhaled, let it out and then told him she would meet him back at the ranch in half an hour.

He stares up at the rain streaked window above his bed at June’s and thinks about running. He can cut the anklet, again. The treasure is still there, he can still disappear, Mozzie sits ready at a moment’s notice. He has nothing here left in the city.

Yet, the thought of running chills him, makes him go cold and heavy. He turns his attention back to the anklet and its green light. He thinks of Peter, giving up the work he loves to demonstrate his love for his wife. He thinks of never seeing Peter again, he thinks of going to work on the twenty first floor of the FBI building as Diana’s CI or someone else’s. It gets colder, and the gravity presses him down into the sheets.

He has one other choice.

Mozzie would not approve.

He flicks the anklet a few times with his index finger. He could be released of it. It would be easy enough to do. He would free Peter from his desperate attempt to prove his love to Elizabeth. It would allow Peter to stay in a place he loves, and work with people who admire him.

No, he’s not like Gollum or Frodo at all.

He can give up the anklet.

He doesn’t smile but it is the right thing to do. He’ll give Diana his answer on Monday. He’ll have one last weekend of freedom and then he will walk into Hughes office, cut his anklet in front of him, and demand to finish out his sentence in prison. There would be questions, but he’s a con-man, he can handle them. It wouldn’t be too hard to state he doesn’t want to do the bureau’s dirty work anymore; he doesn’t want to be the front man with the gun pointed in his face anymore.

It is the right thing to do.

A thought filters through his mind of what Peter might think or do when the deal is said and done. He knows that Peter took extended leave, at least a month. Perhaps by then, he will be able to handle it. Perhaps by then Peter will see that it is a last gift of love to give Peter back his life in whole.

The thought warms him and he shudders through it. Unbidden the memory of Peter’s hands on his face, the kiss that ruined him comes to mind. He gasps as he remembers the tug of his hair in Peter’s grip. The way Peter held his face and devoured his mouth. Neal huffs out a breath as the surge of happiness he felt at the moment suffuses through him. He groans a little as he hardens.

Shoving his hand down his silk pajama bottoms, he takes himself in hand. Much like the night following the encounter in the supply closet Neal strokes and pulls at his shaft. He closes his eyes and recalls the taste of Peter’s mouth on his own, the feel of Peter’s cock in his hand. He moans and pulls again at himself. He keeps rolling into it, trying and pushing against the raw rub of his hand. He wants Peter to touch him again; he wants to be with Peter.

He cannot.

He cannot without hurting her.

It stops him from climaxing, it frustrates and infuriates him. The pain tightens in his cock and he cries out. He yanks at himself again with tears in his eyes as he knows he will never see Peter again, never feel his touch again. He is desperate to come, to feel relief. In the shadows, an image appears before him.

Elizabeth.

Elizabeth and Peter.

Touching him. Kissing him. Loving him.

He comes in a great flood as if a dam breaks deep inside of him. He spills over his hand as he realizes, as he knows. He doesn’t love just Peter.

He loves them both.

He’s lost them both.

With the cooling aftermath of his orgasm drying on his belly and hand, he presses his face into the pillow and smothers his cries.

*oOo*  
Peter hacks away at the thick vines of the morning glories intertwined throughout the back garden of his parents’ yard. He glares at the stuff like it is tentacles from hell. He has no idea where the stuff creeps in from, but it has taken over their vegetable garden and he’s determined to yank every single last stem of it from the ground if it takes him the rest of the weekend.

The work settles across his shoulders, burns into his muscles and tendons. He welcomes it and continues to forge a path through the overgrown garden. He glances back at the house and notices Elizabeth is sitting on the veranda talking with his mother. He smiles at her and gets back to the work at hand.

The feel of the earth, the plants, and the dirt brings him back to an understanding of who he is, and who he wants to be. He knows he has to sacrifice certain things; chief among them is his participation on the White Collar Unit of the FBI. While it still sends pangs of loss through the pit of his stomach, he would give it up any day of the week to ensure his marriage, to show Elizabeth his love.

He cringes as a thorn pricks his finger and shakes out his hand. A tiny drop of blood bubbles out of his thumb. There is no easy alliance within his heart. He hopes leaving the White Collar Unit will not only satisfy Elizabeth and prove his love for her, but he also wishes it will allow some peace of mind for Neal. He knows he has damaged Neal, ripped open holes and sliced away at his trust and love.

He takes the trowel and digs into the Earth. He never meant to cause so much damage. He should have left well enough alone, but the thought of Neal on the run, the thought of that bastard Collins after him left a cold weight in his gut until he couldn’t sleep at night.

He peers back over his shoulder and looks at El. She hasn’t been sleeping well. As soon as they came to his parents’ house she started to haunt the halls during the wee hours of the morning. He would wake when she left the bed and wait for her to return. He’d thought about following her, but decided she needed her space to think. If she needed to leave him, he couldn’t fight it though it would break him. He was nothing without her. He needed her as part of his definition.

Peter wonders what their new definition might be. She’d said this on that horrible night. They needed to redefine who they were as a couple, a couple without the ghost of Neal Caffrey shadowing them. He tells himself the hitch to the rhythm of his heart when he considers Neal will fade, will go away, will disappear.

He wipes sweat from his forehead and for a fleeting minute, wishes it never does. He always wants to remember how he feels about Neal. He doesn’t want to forget it, but he will not act on it. He vowed to remain true to his marriage. He blinks away the sudden blurring of his vision and pounds on the earth to forget the fissures he’s drilled in his world.

“Peter,” Elizabeth calls from the veranda. He stands up and she waves for him to join her.

He sighs and looks at his watch. He’s been outside working for the last two hours and he needs a shower. His dad was supposed to join him, but he’d begged off, said he wasn’t feeling well. Peter suspects ‘not feeling well’ is synonymous with ‘I want to watch the game’. He laughs a bit and gathers up his tools. He dumps them in a bucket and brings it to the shed. After he puts all the gardening instruments away, Peter brushes off the dust and dirt to join Elizabeth and his mother on the porch.

“Ladies,” Peter says. He scrubs a hand through Satchmo’s fur.

“Peter, Elizabeth has been regaling me with your exploits over the last few years. She says your conviction rate has jumped to 94%!” His mother smiles and he feels like a school boy who’s just earned a straight A report card.

“We’ve been lucky,” Peter says and avoids the subject of why.

Elizabeth stands on tiptoes and kisses him. “We’re all very proud of him.” Her eyes sparkle and she doesn’t look as tired as she has been in the last few days.

He tilts his head in question but doesn’t say anything in front of his mother.

“I just made some lemonade and sandwiches, why don’t you go cleaned up and we can have lunch?” his mother suggests.

Peter nods and says, “Sounds great.”

He opens the back screen door and walks inside with Elizabeth trailing after him. “Hon?”

He turns. “Yes?”

“I want to go back to New York,” she says. Her eyes are big and round and bright. Her features are relaxed and soft. “I think we need to go home.”

“I thought you wanted to go on a vacation, somewhere tropical?” The cool shade of the house chills the sweat on his face and torso.

“I did, I did.” She approaches him and slides her arms around his waist. She lays her head on his chest to listen to his heart. “I just want to go home and try us out at home. We should be home where we belong, don’t you feel it?”

He thinks of home and how much it will transform for him. No White Collar Unit, no Neal, but there will be Elizabeth and Satchmo and her arms around him in love.

“I miss home,” he says and truly does.

She lifts a hand to his jaw and gazes at him. “We have to figure this out together, Peter. You have to be honest with me.”

He presses his lips together and nods. In a hoarse whisper, he says, “I know.”

“You’ll miss white collar. You’ll miss him.”

He only nods.

She puts her head on his chest and murmurs, “If it helps any, I will, too.”

It surprises him to hear that confession from her. He closes his eyes; she has always been his compass. “We can do this, El. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He places his chin on her head and holds her. He doesn’t deserve her empathy for his pain, for his loss. It is her empathy though; her bright and clear connection to people that clenches his heart and makes him love her even more.

After a moment, she says, “Go, get cleaned up and we’ll have lunch. We’ll drive home, Monday morning.”

His shower is fast and refreshing. The support Elizabeth offers him reinvigorates him, reveals to him how much he loves her in absolutes. There are no conditions, she understands his split mind, his pain, and she willing accepts it and will work with him to work through it. With her by his side, he expects some day he will be able to think on Neal Caffrey and not experience the sharp stab of loss.  
He towels off and dresses in khaki shorts and a polo shirt. He wants to bring El to the local creamery for ice cream later today. It is a tradition, and they still haven’t swung by even though they’ve been at his parents’ house for over a week.

As he opens the door to the bathroom, El stands there with her face pale and her eyes like shining moons in the night sky.

“El?”

“It’s your father, Peter,” El says as she places a hand on his arm. “He’s collapsed.”

*oOo*  
He wants to make it dramatic and fitting for Neal Caffrey but he finds as he walks into the twenty first floor of the FBI building in Manhattan he just doesn’t have it in him. Instead, he takes one last look at his desk, touches the bust of Socrates, and walks up to Hughes’ office.

It’s over in less than an hour, the Marshalls are called and Neal is stripped of the anklet only to be cuffed and chained. He doesn’t look at his fellow colleagues at the White Collar Unit. He ignores their stares, their questions. Jones and Diana jump to their feet as he’s escorted out of the office. Diana calls after him, but he keeps his attention focused on the elevators, doesn’t answer her queries.

There is only one person who could have stopped him. Deep down inside, Neal had somehow wished Peter would have miraculously appeared at the White Collar offices to stop him and his insane plan. He knew Mozzie couldn’t, because he never confessed his plan to his friend. Mozzie would know soon enough, he put a call into his ‘lawyer’ as soon as he was officially arrested.

As the door to the lift opens, Neal gazes once more at his lost home. He looks up to the office where Peter sat, where he argued and debated, where he planned and assisted, he looks and sees and feels the last of his strength fall out of him. He thinks he might tip over like a drunk in the street. One of the Marshalls encircles his bicep and for this he is grateful.

He laughs a mirthless sound as they lead him into the elevator and Diana calls that she is going to get to the bottom of this, whatever this is. She doesn’t understand that he’s done this to himself. He picked prison. Two years of solitude, two years to live with the memories of what could have been and never was, two years to go mad with his imagination and his isolation. Two years of segregation from all others. He chose this because it gives Peter and Elizabeth their life back. He never meant to steal it; he isn’t that kind of thief, he isn’t that kind of person. He wishes they knew this about him, he hopes someday they will realize he isn’t a bad person.

For them, he would do this one thing.

The elevator doors close and his life changes.

*oOo*  
Elizabeth looks up at the clock as the phone rings. It is two in the afternoon on Thursday. She came back from the hospital to take Satchmo out since they’d brought him during their visit to her in-laws. The phone rings again and she worries it might be Peter calling her about his dad’s status. When she left he’d been stable and resting comfortably.

Picking up the phone, she says, “The Burkes’ can I help you?”

“Elizabeth?”

“Diana?” She frowns then remembers Peter shut off his phone so it wouldn’t interfere with the heart monitors and other equipment at the hospital. “Peter isn’t here right now.”

“Oh, do you know how I could get in touch with him?” Diana sounds harried which is completely out of character for her. “I tried his cell phone but he hasn’t answered.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth says and puts a hand to her forehead then sweeps her hair away from her face. She peers out the window to watch Satchmo in the yard. Her mother in law will kill her if he digs up her irises again this year. “He’s at the hospital. His father had a heart attack He’s doing now, but we were worried for a bit.”

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry, I didn-.” She stops and starts again. It sounds so off, so not Diana that Elizabeth interrupts her before she’s able to actually formulate another sentence.

“What’s going on, Diana?”

There’s a pause over the phone and for a moment, Elizabeth thinks the connection has been cut until Diana breathes and says, “I tried to call all day yesterday.”

“We were at the hospital most of the day, Diana, please?” She cannot contain the images and fears shifting through her. She has no idea why but terror ratchets up. Her mind spirals to Peter and how he would feel if he’d been torn away from Neal, and then something terrible, something unthinkable happened to Neal.

“Neal’s in prison.”

“What?” Her breath stops, she thinks she hiccups a little as her heart skips in her chest.

“He came in on Monday and went directly to Hughes, I don’t know the whole story because Hughes won’t tell me,” Diana says. “All I know is that Caffrey decided he didn’t want the anklet anymore, he wanted to serve out his sentence in prison.”

“Damn it,” Elizabeth says and watches as Satchmo yanks out a patch of irises. “What happened before that? Why would he do that?”

“I talked with him on Friday about Peter and his request to be re-assigned. I admit I was pissed, but I didn’t accuse Neal of anything. I just didn’t understand it. I asked Neal to be honest with me since he was going to be under my supervision.”

“And this was his answer?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“Yes.” Diana waits and then asks, “Do you know why?”

“I can’t say,” Elizabeth answers. “Peter’s dad should be out of the hospital tomorrow. We should be able to get back to the city maybe early next week?”

The silence deafens her and she knows deep in the primitive portions of her brain that she should be scared, worried, frightened. “What, Diana, what else?”

“Neal was attacked last night.”

“Shouldn’t,” she says and gathers herself, but the scared part keeps shaking her and taking hold. “Shouldn’t he be segregated from the population?”

“He’d only been transferred there the previous day, and he was segregated but,” Diana replies. “It isn’t pretty, Elizabeth. A guard was paid off, or that’s what they think. Luckily another guard walked in on the attack and was able to stop it.”

“Is he,” Elizabeth asks. She remembers the smile wide and open and bright when Neal greeted her on that horrible night. It seems like yesterday, it seems like years ago. She recalls the school girl flutter in her heart as she went to open the door as if Neal was her date. He cannot be hurt, she tells herself – she wills Diana to tell her everything is fine. “Is he okay?”

“He’s hurt, I’m not sure of the details. That information cannot be released to me. But I do know the prison infirmary can’t handle the injuries so he’s being transported to the hospital.”

“Oh my God,” Elizabeth says and sits down at the kitchen table. The cord to the phone on the wall barely reaches to her chair. She wilts but gathers up the strength from the well she always knows is there, from the place she defines herself. It hasn’t been easy lately, she’s been off kilter, as unbalanced as her marriage has been these last few weeks. This news forces her to tie together the frayed edges of her psyche and pull herself back together. She _is_ Elizabeth Burke, after all.

“I’ll come.”

“You?” Diana says.

“I’m probably the only person that can rectify the situation.” She knows this is true as she knows her own bones and muscles and breath. She knows Neal will listen to no one but her. Before Diana can protest or quiz her, she adds, “Don’t ask me, now, Diana. Just agree that you will take me to see him.”

“Okay,” Diana answers. “I’ll take you. And Elizabeth?”

“Yes?”

“Make sure you knock some sense into him.”

“I’ll try.”

“You have to. He can’t go back there, if he does-.” Diana leaves it unfinished but the thought slams her in the chest and she has to gasp to catch her breath.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to fail,” she says it and she means it. She refuses to let him do this; she will not let him do this. It isn’t about Peter, it is about Neal. She is Elizabeth Burke and she takes care of her own. She saying she’ll be out on the next flight as she realizes she considers Neal hers. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”

Diana gives her the details, and then says, “I’ll come pick you up.”

When she hangs up the phone, she can only think of one thing. How the balance of her life splintered and she was the one who took the hammer to it.

*oOo*  
When he opens his eyes, he sees the white ceiling and hears the light beep of instruments. He stares for a long time because the world is lopsided. He cannot remember where he is, and why he isn’t waking up at his apartment in June’s mansion. He glimpses a shadow in the corners of his eyes and the memories rush back at him like an avalanche of stone and rock. He feels every fist as if each stone batters him, as if each rock pounds into him. A stone to his solar plexus makes him gulp for air, a rock slams into his face and he staggers and falls. He cries out, trying to evade the coming cascade of stones, and rocks and fists. As he does, he struggles but he cannot move his arms, they are cuffed to the bed. He kicks out and discovers the same impediments on his ankles.

He tries to yell, but the pain intensifies and the rocks collide and spark and fire burst forth in chest. Something stops him, a hand on his shoulder, and a voice. He reaches for the sounds, the soothing whispers.

“Mister Caffrey, I am going to have to ask you to calm yourself. I don’t want to ask the officer to come into the room. I want you to be able to recover. Open your eyes and look at me.”

He does as told and sees a tall woman with her blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail. “You’re in recovery. Do you remember coming to the hospital?”

He shakes his head and realizes there is a nasal cannula still wrapped over his face.

“You came to the hospital to have surgery. Your lung partially collapsed due to broken ribs and you had internal bleeding.” The woman checks the intravenous line that is attached to the back of his hand. He notes the handcuffs linked to the side rails of the bed. “There was damage to your spleen, but I was able to repair it so it didn’t need to be removed. You have some contusions on your torso and face, but no other broken bones but two ribs.”

He tries to take it all in, but he isn’t sure why he’s here. He only remembers the fists, and the hands on his arms, on his legs, the rag stuffed in his mouth.

“Calm, calm.” The acceleration of the heart monitor screams in his ears. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Attacked?” His voice scratches his throat and he coughs. She nods and another woman comes into view and offers him a drink of cold water.

“Yes, you were attacked in prison. The infirmary couldn’t handle the required surgery so you were transferred to the hospital.”

“Prison.”

It all comes back and the avalanche becomes one not of stone and rock but of sorrow and pain. He turns away from her and doesn’t answer the rest of her questions about his condition or his pain levels. He only listens to the beep of the monitor and wishes the guard had never stopped them.

The rest of the day into the evening blurs in his reality. Hands lift him and he’s shifted to a new bed in a private room. The guard locks his wrists and chains his ankles to the bed rails. He doesn’t resist, there is no reason to fight what he willingly accepted as his fate. He lets slumber take him and the drugs lull him into a serene stupor.

He wakes but has no idea regarding the passage of time. The room is quiet but not dark. He shifts to look out the window and winces as he does. The pain in his chest is diffuse but aches. The same woman he saw in recovery appears at the door some time later. She washes her hands and checks the computer for his status.

“Hi, Mister Caffrey, my name is Doctor Samantha Young.” She reminds him of a soccer player. She’s tall and lithe but muscular. Her ponytail swings as she talks.

He lifts his hand and the cuff clinks on the rail. “Sorry if I don’t shake your hand.”

“Do you remember what we spoke about in recovery?”

“A bit,” he says. “Broken ribs, lung collapsed, spleen repaired – anything else?”

“You do have a mild concussion, some minor scrapes and cuts,” she adds. While she speaks, she flips her stethoscope into her ears and tugs down the gown to check his heart and breathing. When she is satisfied with that, she then opens the side of the gown to check his incision. She pats him on the shoulder and smiles.

“Nothing else?” He remembers the blow to his head and recalls how the room dimmed out, how the hands and arms and what they were doing faded and became distorted with nightmare fears.

“Nothing else,” she says and presses her hand on his shoulder. “I promise you.”

It startles him, her attitude toward a felon and convict – a prisoner. “I’m sorry; I’m just a little surprised.”

She laughs and it is a sweet and light sound. “Oh Mister Caffrey, you have friends in high places.”

“What?”

“Are you up for a visitor?” She notes something on the computer. “Do you have any pain?”

“What?” He still hasn’t computed everything she’s reported to him.

“I’m sorry, are you in any pain?” Her smile is engaging and smart.

“No, I’m good,” he adds but thinks it is funny that he’s saying he’s good when he’s had the shit beaten out of him. “Visitor?”

“Yes, you have two visitors, would you like me to send them in? The officer has cleared them,” the doctor says.

Two visitors, his head stumbles and clatters along like a rusted railway car on broken tracks. He cannot find his way to figuring out who would visit him, but guesses it must be Mozzie and possibly June. He steels himself for Mozzie’s fury and June’s quiet reprimand.

“Okay.”

She leaves to call his visitors in. Neal rests back into the cushion of the pillows. The bed is at a 45 degree angle, and it helps him breath. He still has the nasal cannula in place. The door swings open and he catches a glimpse of the guard standing outside of his door, then two figures in silhouette appear.

His breath hitches and he coughs which starts a flare of pain through his chest and side. He groans against the agony. He holds onto the railing and tries to bend as much as he can to protect the tender ribs and incision. He pants through it as his eyes tear.

“Neal.”

“Caffrey.”

The last two women in the world he wanted to see stand at the side of his bed. Diana and Elizabeth. He lays back his head and thinks maybe that God hates him. He recalls Mel Gibson’s character in _Lethal Weapon_ saying that the best response to that was to hate him back. He thinks this is a good plan.

“Diana, Elizabeth.”

“I’ll be back, Caffrey, behave.”

“What can I do?” He raises up his hands to show the cuffs and she just shakes her head, folds her arms, and walks out of the room. He wants to ignore the truth hanging heavy in the air like thick humidity in the Southern states. Neal looks at Elizabeth, but he doesn’t smile. He’s not going to do that to her. “Elizabeth.”

Her eyes look red and glisten as she searches his features. At the very least, he knows he has a black eye (or two) and split lip. She crosses the small distance between them and reaches out to touch his hand. He jerks at her touch as if it burns. She yanks her hand away.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” he says, though he’s confused. Is he sorry for falling in love with her husband or is he sorry for reacting to her touch, or is he sorry he cannot confess the rest of the ugly truth?

“Neal.” She stops and closes her eyes for only a moment, then steadied, she focuses on him. “Why? Why did you do this?”

He drops his gaze, knowing full well he cannot burden her with the truth. “It happened, Elizabeth. I don’t think you really need to know.”

She attempts to reach out again. Her hand touches his and he doesn’t move away this time. “I talked to Reese.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“It was my decision; I thought it was for the best.” He blames his inability to play a word game with her, to manipulate her to the drugs pumping into his system.

“The best? To put yourself at risk?” Elizabeth says, her tone accusing him. “Do you know how this will make Peter feel? To know, you gave it all up? That you put yourself in danger? Do you think you have that right?”

“I have every right to decide what danger I want to put myself in,” he says and for some reason he finds himself angry with white hot rage shaking through him. “Peter isn’t a part of my life or my decisions. Neither are you. This is my decision, not yours, not Peter’s.” He fists his hands trying to quell the intensity of his reaction, the heart monitor rings in time with the throbbing in his chest.

“I’m not stupid, Neal. Don’t treat me that way.” She crosses her arms over her chest but her next words are soft and tender. “This will get you killed, Neal, don’t do this.”

He looks away from her and the indignation dissipates into only a grayed memory. Turning back to her, Neal says, “I never went in this to hurt you, to hurt him. At first, it was just a way to find Kate, now it was just another way to find freedom, but I can’t-.” He halts – she is not his priest and he should not confess and leave his burden on her shoulders. He clears his mind of memories of taking himself in hand and coming to climax with thoughts of her and her husband.

“You can’t?”

“Elizabeth, why are you here?” Neal asks. “Where’s Peter?”

She doesn’t answer immediately and while it confounds him, he acts on it. “Go, Elizabeth. Go.” He cannot have her here another minute. He might declare what lurks deep inside of him, what breaks him and fragments him all at once. He needs her gone.

“Neal.”

He can see a single tear track down her face. He gathers his defenses and says, “Go, I need you to leave. Please.”

She concedes but says, “I’ll leave now, but I’m coming back. You don’t get out of this one that easily, Neal. Not this time, not now.”

He wants to ask her why, but the exhaustion eats away at his bones and he sags against the cushions as she walks out of the room. His attempt to stay awake, to formulate a plan of defense against her fails as the injuries he suffers overwhelm him and he sinks into slumber.

*oOo*  
She becomes a great artist, a conniver, a liar. She sends out streams of lies and tells her husband that there was an emergency at her business that she has to handle it; it will take a few days. She never falters in her tone of voice. She tells him not to bother calling the house; she’ll be at the event most of the weekend. It will be hard to get in touch with her.

She sits vigil by Neal’s side. He scowls at her and asks her to leave. She refuses. Diana arches a brow at the both of them, remarks that they are like toddlers, but nods to her in silent partnership.

Neal fades in gentle waves. The medical staff doesn’t realize it until his fever spikes and he needs to go in for emergency surgery. The repair to his spleen did not work; an infection has taken hold and they need to remove it. The doctor pumps him full of intravenous antibiotics after the surgery. He spends the time he is awake vomiting into a bowl she holds for him.

Elizabeth wipes his brow with a wet cloth; combs back his slightly greasy hair, and hold his hand when he’s sleeping. She argues with the officer guarding his room that he needs at least one hand free. If she isn’t there, is the guard going to hold the puke bowl? She shoves it in his broad chest. The officer unlocks Neal’s left wrist.

She nods and thanks him. With a grunt, she’s able to push down the side rail of the bed. She comforts and holds onto Neal as he suffers through the height of his fever. Sometimes in the depths of the night, he weeps a little. She thinks he’s sleeping but she isn’t sure. He mouths words, names. He calls for Peter, he cries for her. It chips off pieces of her heart until she lets the tears run freely down her face in the pitch of night.

Sunday morning finds her curled in the corner of the cushioned chair in Neal’s room. A nurse must have given her a blanket and she wraps it around her shoulders as she rises. She slips out of the chair, goes to the bathroom, then comes back to check on her charge. The nurse is there when she returns.

“How is he?”

The nurse has worn skin, a large bun of salt and peppered hair, and kind eyes. “Better, his fever broke. The doctors think they caught it on time. He’ll probably have quite a time of it for a while. Considering he’s lost his spleen, there will be precautions to take.”

She nods and cannot help but feel relief.

“Stand by your man, right?” the nurse says as she shuffles around the bed to check Neal’s incision.

Elizabeth shrugs but doesn’t say anything.

“You’re a good wife,” the nurse says, grips Elizabeth’s arm and then smiles as she leaves.

The words surprise her but she isn’t stunned. She’s been sitting by his side, taking care of him for days. She’s only talked to Peter a handful of times. It feels right, and good to have some link to Neal even if it is just a mistake conception. Crossing the room, she takes Neal’s hand as he moves a bit in the bed and rises from his slumber. She doesn’t look at him in resentment, she is happy she is the one that could offer him this support.

“Shush,” she whispers and strokes his face. He leans into her hand and opens his eyes.

“Elizabeth?”

“I’m here, you’re going to be fine, you’re going to be all right now,” she replies but doesn’t take her hand away as he rubs his stubble against her cupped palm for comfort.

“You can’t be here.” His voice rips shreds in her heart. She recognizes the fear in his eyes, in the tension in his body.

“I can and I will.” Elizabeth puts both hands on his face, and gently strokes away the tears. “You have family, Neal. You are not alone.” She accepts the truth of it and feels as if the missing pieces slide back into place. She recalls the faint keening of his moans during the night, when he thought he was alone, when he cried out for help in the pit of his fever. She answered him every time.

“You should leave,” he says and she sees him closing down, locking that vulnerable part of himself up into a dark closet so that she cannot witness it again. She knows, now, though, she understands his needs, his fears. She understands more, as well.

She graces him with a kiss to his forehead and says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, yes, you are.” The voice makes her jump and she knocks into Neal a bit and he cringes.

She stands up straight and sees Peter standing at the entrance to Neal’s room. “Peter.”

Neal grips her hand at the sight of Peter.

“Elizabeth, may I see you outside?”

She looks at Neal’s terrified face, then offers him a sad smile, squeezes his hand once and nods to her husband. The lie could only stretch so far, and she accepts that fact. She pushes a hand through her tangled knots and realizes she hasn’t had a shower in days. She frowns as she follows Peter into the hallway.

His face is unreadable; his eyes though glare at her. As soon as they clear the entrance and step away from the guard, Peter spins on her and says, “You lied.”

“Yes.”

“You told me there was an emergency with Burke Premiere.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been here all along.” He points to the door to Neal’s room.

She nods.

“Diana told me Neal almost died. That he’s still weak.”

She bows her head and tries not to think of how Peter would have felt, how he must feel now. She did what she needed to do, what she thought was right. “I knew you wouldn’t want Neal to face this alone.”

“Don’t give me that, has he been training you on Caffrey speak?” Peter places his hands on his hips and looks away. “What do you want me to think? El, I’m not sure how I should be reacting here.”

“No, I know,” she says and glances back at the door to Neal’s room. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“More than you know,” she whispers then starts anew. “He was attacked.”

“I know, Diana finally got in touch with me and told me the whole story,” Peter says. “Didn’t Neal tell you to cover your bases to make sure everyone is in on the con?”

“Peter,” she says, but can’t think of an excuse. She knows she needed to be here, for him, for Neal, for herself.

“He was my partner, El. Even after-.” He presses his lips together and exhales through his nose. “Even after everything, you should have told me. If he had died, I had a right to know. At the very least as his friend, you should have told me. Why didn’t you tell me?” His tone heightens but she can tell the emotions are battling within him, anger, pain, loss, love, and sorrow.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?” Anger wins. She’s very rarely seen him angry, especially when it is directed toward her. “Why? You wanted to keep this from me as well. Because of that, because of everything that happened? Damn it, El. I deserved to know.”

“Why?” she retorts then softens her voice. “Because you love him?”

He doesn’t answer, just swallows down the anger, just chokes down his reply. She needs him to be truthful; she needs him to say something to her. She needs everyone, EVERYONE, to tell her the God damned truth.

“Do you love him?” she says through gritted teeth.

Still he remains silent.

“Tell me or so help me God-.” She has no threat, so she just lets it hang there.

In a mumbled voice he says, “Yes.” Everything about him depletes and deflates. He covers his mouth with his hand as if he’s just sinned.

“Finally,” she whispers. He’s said it before, but this time it means something, something different. This time there is no going back. “The truth.” Tears stream in long streaks down her face. She feels vindicated and triumphant. A bit of jubilation sets in and she smiles through the emotions wrecking her. “The truth.”

“I’m so sorry, El,” Peter says and he gathers her up in his arms. “I do, I love him heart and soul like I love you.”

She crying and laughing and falling apart all at once. “I love you.”

He strokes her hair and buries his face in it. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She looks up at him, cups his face in her hands much as she’d done with Neal, and looks into his eyes. She sees the truth, the awful, horrible, perfect, wonderful truth there and it emboldens her. It strikes deep down inside and reverberates. She hears her own truths in his confession. She places a kiss on his lips, drops back and lays her head on his chest.

“That’s good,” she whispers.

“El?”

The tears she’s been holding onto all these days and nights in fear, the tears wash over her and she grabs onto him tight and strong and weak.

“El?” He lifts her chin so he can see her face.

She gazes into his eyes, so dark and solid. She says the words that will change their lives forever. “Because, I love him, too.”

*oOo*  
Reality snaps and splinters and he thinks he’s getting whiplash. Peter eases back into the chair and studies his wife as she putters about the hospital room. He hasn’t seen her happier in weeks, yet he has no idea why she is happy. He feels a little lost, no, a lot lost. Neal remains ignorant of the entire situation as he falls into the sleep of the recuperating.

Peter found the doctor shortly after his discussion – if that what you could call it – with Elizabeth and flashed his badge to get briefed on Neal’s condition. It didn’t take long to realize how very serious it had been, how close Neal had come to sepsis. When he thinks about it, a roll dances through his gut and he winces. After the update, he sought out Diana and ordered her to consult with Hughes about getting Neal’s deal re-instated. There wouldn’t be an issue; a guard had been paid off to offer Neal up like a sacrificial lamb. The investigation was still on-going but no one knew at this point if Neal had been targeted because of his FBI consultant status or simply because he was new meat. It roiled him to think of Neal that way.

Diana considered him when he listed everything she needed to do. He saw how she calculated his interference with something that was essentially none of his business, but then a smile broke out on her face as she announced everything was already in the works.

“Just get Caffrey to sign the damned deal,” she had said and left.

Now, he watches his wife adjust the blanket over Neal and whisper to him as he rustles in the bed. Her voice soothes him and Neal drifts back to sleep. Elizabeth turns to him and there is a certain peace he hasn’t seen in her eyes in a long time, more than weeks. He realizes she’s been disturbed since Neal ran, as he had been. He feels selfish and small that he hadn’t considered how the sphere of his life influenced her steady state.

“How’s your dad?” she asks as she pulls over the hard back chair. He stands from the cushioned lounger and offers it to her. He’s glad when she doesn’t put up a fuss about it and bends her feet under her, dropping off her shoes to the floor and settles into the lounger.

“He’s much better. Tia from across the street is going to stay with Mom and Dad for a few days. Help out. She’s a good kid, you know she wants to be a doctor?” Peter says.

“Tia’s a nice girl,” Elizabeth agrees and yawns. “God, I’m tired.”

“Been a tough couple of weeks.”

“Months, actually,” she says and rests her head back.

He regards her for a few silent moments, then leans forward, clasps his hands in front of him as he places his elbows on his knees. “El, I have to ask, what the hell are we doing here?”

She smiles and a low throaty chuckle issues from her. He’s not sure he gets the joke. She waves him off and answers, “I have no idea.”

“But – what?” He points to Neal in the bed, oblivious to them, to their tangled emotions, to their mismatched marriage.

“Peter, I have no idea,” Elizabeth says. She straightens herself in the chair and offers her hands. They hold on to one another, anchored and moored. “When it happened, that horrible night, I suspected. I knew. I wanted to confirm things. I just needed to know.”

He nods but says nothing.  
“I said we needed to re-define us. I know we still do,” she continues. “I thought we needed to be reminded about who we are; I thought you needed to be reminded about who you are. I was wrong.”

“I’m not sure about that,” he replies.

“Can you honestly say you can go on with everything stripped of your definition? White Collar, Neal? Everything.”

He looks away, embarrassed that she is right.

“It’s okay to be honest, sweetie.” She tilts her head to meet his gaze. He turns to her. “I don’t want you to re-define yourself to be with me. One of the things that makes our marriage so strong, so absolutely right is that we support one another in what we do, in what we love.”

She glances at Neal, who still sleeps. His heart swells as he sees her tender expression as she gazes upon him. Peter harmed her, hurt her, but still she finds the grace to support and comfort. He can never understand her.

“I’m not saying I understand it,” she says. “But I did talk a bit to your mother.”

“My mother?” he chokes a bit.

She giggles and shakes her head. “Don’t worry I didn’t confess anything. But she told me when marriage threw her a curveball; she just hit it out of the park.”

“That sounds like Mom. Well, it actually it sounds more like Dad,” he says.

“She’s been living with your dad for a million years,” Elizabeth remarks and then returns to the subject. “Anyhow, I took that to mean that the ball ends up in the new place.”

He shrugs; he’s willing to follow her.

“I said we need to re-define us, we do, but-.” She stops and turns her attention to Neal. “I think, maybe, we have to consider that Neal is a part of us.”

He blinks a few times and tries to clear his head. “What did you just say?”

“I’m not saying I understand it, Peter, I’m not saying I have all the answers, but I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose him.” Elizabeth grasps his hands and brings them to her lips. She kisses them. “I am in love with you, I do love him. I know it isn’t the same, but I want you to be happy.”

“I still don’t understand what you mean, El?” The air in his lungs catches and feels too small, too tight to actually give him breath.

“Peter, like I said, I don’t have all the answers,” she whispers and drops their linked hands. “I want this to work. I want to be with you, I want you to be happy. That means, Neal will be in our lives. I am okay with that.”

“Okay with that?”

“I don’t know what that is,” she confides. “He could be a friend; he could be a lover, a partner. I don’t know. We have to take it one step at a time. We’re forging a new definition of our marriage, of who we are.”

He swallows and admits, “I don’t know if I can just keep him at arm’s length. I love him.”

She nods and firms her lips in a half smile, half frown. “When you commit to something, you do it heart and soul, Peter Burke. I know that about you. That is not a surprise. We’ll figure it out.”

“I still don’t-.”

She presses her fingers against his lips. “Don’t try. One step, one baby step. We’re together, all three of us, and that is what counts.”

“All three of us?”

She shifts back to look at Neal and her expression is serene, angelic. In a whisper, she says, “Yes, us, all three of us.”

*oOo*  
_Epilogue_  
The afternoon sun paints the living room with a hazy kind of light. The strength and height of the summer heat the room and she sighs with the book perched on the back of the couch and the lazy weekend unfolds in hushed tones. She hears the shuffle of Peter in the kitchen and he emerges carrying a tray with tea, a few crackers, and the homemade soup she cooked yesterday.

“Is he awake?”

“I think, I heard him moving around up there,” Peter says and carries the tray upstairs.

She follows after him, not feeling like a stray dog, yet not perfectly a part of his relationship with Neal. Not yet, but she has no doubt she is not separate from them, that their relationship depends on her participation, her acceptance, her love.

They enter into the guest room and Neal rests in the bed, one of her old art history class books on his lap. His recovery has been slow and painful with setbacks. His face is drawn and pale, still. She isn’t sure all of the pain is physical, he has lost so much, but she hopes he knows how much he’s gained.

“Time for lunch?” Peter says and places the tray on the side table. He uses the front cover of the book as a marker for Neal and removes it from his lap.

“Thank you,” Neal says as he eyes Elizabeth. She stands sentinel by his side, like Peter might break, like Neal might fragment if she disapproves.

“How are you feeling?” she asks. Peter adjusts the tray and helps Neal to situate himself.

“Okay?” Peter says.

Neal nods and picks up his spoon. He studies the soup and doesn’t look up when he says, “I’m still not sure.”

“You don’t know how you feel?”

Neal frowns and looks at her for assistance. “Is he always this obtuse?”

“He used to be worse,” she says and sits on the edge of the bed. She reaches over and takes the teabag out of the cup and sets it aside.

“I can see how this is going to work,” Peter says in a low grumble.

“Well, that’s good because I haven’t figured it out at all,” Neal says. Elizabeth only giggles; part of this is such fun, watching men trying to navigate through the mine field of complex emotional ties. Neal stretches and grunts a bit, but captures her hand all the same. “Really, Elizabeth, I need to know.”

“What?”

“When I saw both of you there, at the hospital and you said everything was going to be good, everything was going to be all right now, I still don’t know what that means.”

She stands and rounds the bed. She places a kiss soft and chaste on his lips. Bending over him, her breath hot on his mouth, she says, “I don’t know. I know I love my husband, and he loves me. I know he loves you and that I do love you as well. Now, tell me Neal Caffrey, how do you feel?”

Peter joins their circle, his one hand settling on Elizabeth’s shoulder while his other strokes down Neal’s cheek.

“I love you both,” he whispers in confirmation.

At that moment, she knows the world of her marriage, broken and damaged, has been repaired. It isn’t like anything she’s known before. It isn’t like anything any of them understand, but the warmth and perfection burning inside of her tells her the definition they are writing is the right one.

Peter surprises her when he echoes her thoughts. “That is all that counts.”

Both Peter and Elizabeth lean down and kiss Neal. It promises so much, it gives so much. He threads his fingers through her hair as he wraps his arms around them. Foreheads tipped together, the world becomes a blur but she doesn’t need to see anything or hear anything else. She knows, they know, they are in love.

THE END.

 _Author’s Notes – Wow! Over 10,000 words for this one part. It was always my intention to set up a story where each of the partners in the OT3 would have to come to terms with their love. I wanted to make it as realistic as possible. I also hope that this ending is true to the rest of the story. I know many things are left open here, but I think that is part of the story…about redefining the relationship and marriage to accept a third. Thank you and I hope you enjoyed my resolution._ Also this fills the I becomes we square on my cottoncandy bingo card


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